


Doctor's Orders

by mynameisnoneya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidents, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Best Friends, Developing Relationship, Doctors & Physicians, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Kissing, Mild Language, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rating May Change, Roommates, Sisters, Students, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29558871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/pseuds/mynameisnoneya
Summary: Sansa Stark hates exercise.  All forms of it, to be precise.  Yet thanks to a freak mishap on the trail while trying to get in shape under her little sister's supervision, Sansa's opinion on the matter changes dramatically after a chance encounter with a handsome older man who just so happens to be a doctor.Life in this small, sleepy college town in Vermont just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 86
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the wonderful BirdeBee and [this gorgeous Jaimsa picset!](https://birdebee.tumblr.com/post/640183222432628736/she-hated-exercising-it-was-the-devil-itself-and) I have been kicking around a story idea ever since I laid eyes on that beauty. So, here we go folks - a funny, fluffy romcom adventure featuring Sansa Stark, an unlucky-in-love (and exercise-adverse) college student who falls head-over-heels for a dashing, handsome physician named Jaime Lannister!
> 
> I will post updates weekly on Fridays, but please don't send the mob after me if I run late. I really am shooting for weekly updates, I promise!
> 
> Please note that I made sure to tag any and all characters that appear in this work, whether they have a speaking role or not.
> 
> General disclaimer: GoT characters and quotes belong to GRMM - I own nor claim nothing!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please let me know by leaving comments and kudos!

“Please, Arya,” Sansa whines in between pants, “slow down!”

“C’mon, grandma!” her younger sister shouts over her shoulder. She laughs as she picks up the pace. “Keep up!”

“Arya, wait!”

“See you in the parking lot, loser!”

“Seriously?!” 

And just like that, Sansa is abandoned on the trail, her athletic sister’s form growing smaller and smaller until Arya zooms around the curve up ahead and disappears behind the line of trees. Irritated, the exhausted redhead grinds her Nikes to a halt. She leans over right where she is standing in the middle of the trail that winds around campus, resting her hands on her thighs as she gasps for breath.

”I’m going . . . to kill her . . . when I get . . .a hold of her,” she says out loud in between huffs and puffs. Closing her eyes, she focuses on her lungs, praying to any god who will listen that she finds the stamina to finish the three-mile run her sadistic little sister insisted they complete today as part of her brand-new physical fitness plan.

Still hunched over as a few walkers go around her from the opposite direction, Sansa grumbles now that the muscles in her calves are starting to tighten up on her. She was a moron to think she could handle such a distance so soon in her training. Until last week, the only reason Sansa Stark ran was to get away from spiders, snakes, and shitheads with the last name Hardyng. Yet here she is, trying to keep up with a girl who ran track and cross-country in high school because she thought it was _fun._

God, she was insane to agree to this today, especially since she dislikes running so much.

Wait, scratch that.

She _loathes_ running.

Despises it.

Like, she would rather rip out her toenails one by one with pliers than run.

Checking her watch, Sansa sighs heavily. Great. Half her morning is already gone, and she is not even half-way done. And it is Saturday, for Pete’s sake. She should be in her glasses and llama-print pajamas, sitting on the couch in her apartment, eating a bowl of cereal while watching Scooby Doo reruns. What she should _not_ be doing is exactly what she _is_ doing. She never signed up for weekend torture sessions when she had agreed to Arya’s plan to help her get in shape.

“On your left!”

Lost in thought, Sansa startles when a couple of runners zip past her from behind, the perky, petite pair blasting by so fast, she could catch a chill from the gust whipping off them. The two young ladies, each sporting a matching, skin-tight spandex ensemble, give Sansa a stern look of disapproval over their shoulders as they pass, and she is not sure if they are looking at her like that because she is blocking half the trail or because her idea of work-out clothes involves a pair of ratty old sweatpants and a thread-bare t-shirt she snagged from Robb back in middle school.

While the cute, curvy coeds giggle amongst themselves as they speed ahead, Sansa grits her teeth. Today is _not_ the day that Sansa Stark gives up. She will show Arya and those two stuck-up sorority sisters that she is a woman who finishes what she started. She will make it to the parking lot, or she will die trying.

Exhaling in a whoosh, Sansa rises to her full height and launches forward, determined to catch up to the two young women, who continue to run like a pair of gazelles outmaneuvering a cheetah. As her feet pound the dirt, every nerve in her body shouts at her to stop, every muscle begging her to rethink her decision, yet still she presses onward. She is desperate to pass those two before her lungs explode, so she digs in deep, giving it her all as the distance between them shortens.

When the runners caught in her crosshairs disappear around the curve up ahead, Sansa’s vision narrows, her entire essence concentrating on the act of overtaking them. When she gets close to the curve, a huge, smug smile splays across her face. Any second now, it will be her turn to pass them _._ It will be her turn to win for a change.

The sweet smell of victory overtakes Sansa’s senses as she leans into the curve, but alas, in her quest to prove to the world that she is not a loser like Arya has claimed for the last decade, Sansa does not notice until it is too late that a gigantic branch lies across the trail, its enormous girth blocking two-thirds of the narrow path.

“Aaah!” she screams when her sneakers collide with wood, and there she goes, pitching forward over said branch and landing on the ground in an awkward, jumbled heap of freckled limbs. Her ankle throbs, and when she grabs it, she winces in pain. “Ow!” She tries less pressure, but the agony does not dissipate. “Ow, ow, ow!”

Tears dare to form as she sits on the ground, her spirits crumbling and her shoulders sagging as the pair of runners fade into obscurity. Closing her eyes and clutching her ankle, she invokes an equally painful form of divine punishment to befall those two young women. She is certain that they are laughing at her, just like Arya is probably doing right now while sitting in the comfort of the car, snacking on her stupid low-carb protein bar as she waits for her pathetic older sister to show up.

Sansa growls under breath. She hates running. She hates exercise and eating healthy and everything there is to hate about today.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Surprised by the sudden appearance of a deep, rich male voice, Sansa’s eyes pop open, her head swiveling toward the sound. When she catches sight of the owner of said voice, her mouth flops onto her chest. Perched on a mountain bike is the handsomest man she has ever seen. He is tall and lean, his long, muscular legs stretching out from his knee-length bike shorts, every sinew of his firm, toned calves confirming he rides that thing a _lot_.

“Uh . . . no. Not really.” 

“Sorry to hear that.” The good-looking stranger motions with his head toward her foot. “Would you like me to take a look?”

“I, uh . . .” Sansa blinks, her brain still trying to process the angles of his chiseled jawline and the sultry hue of his emerald eyes. Never in her life has she been so fuddled, but then, she has never been approached by a Greek god in human form, either.

He chuckles then, his perfectly white teeth gleaming brighter than the morning sun. “I guess I should’ve mentioned that I’m a doctor.”

_A doctor . . . sweet baby Jesus, he’s a doctor . . ._

“Oh! Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Smiling at her, he throws a leg over his bike and dismounts. Off comes his helmet, revealing a head full of silky, shaggy blond hair. When he shakes his head, flicking his bangs to the side like something out of a shampoo commercial, Sansa bites her bottom lip. She would pay good money to run her hands through that golden mane.

As he approaches, she plays it cool, even though her stomach is filled with butterflies and her head with Arya’s voice, her internalized sister berating her for not only tripping like a doofus but also for letting some random dude manhandle her. Thank goodness Arya isn’t around to witness how badly her older sister wants said random dude to manhandle her.

“May I?” he asks Sansa as he kneels beside her and removes his bike gloves, waiting for permission to proceed. Still unable to formulate a coherent thought, she stares at him like a doe in the headlights. “I promise I’ll be gentle,” he adds, his playful wink sending a wave of heat straight to her core.

Sansa exhales in a gush of giddiness. “Okay,” she replies, and when he takes her foot in hand, removing her sneaker and her sock, she takes the opportunity to examine him as well. Instantly she notices the absence of a wedding ring, a wonderful observation indeed. From there she spies the first signs of gray at both his temples, some silver strands lurking inside his three-day-old scruff. A few fine lines rest at the corners of his eyes, which crinkle in a ruggedly handsome sort of way when he squints, the lines of his forehead doing the same. 

“So, you like llamas, do you?” he asks, interrupting her train of thought.

Her ginger brows pinch together from confusion, not pain. “Wait, how did you – ” She cuts herself off at the pass when she glimpses her empty sock lying on the ground by her shoe. Of course, she wore her hot pink, llama-print knee-highs that her younger brothers gave her for Christmas. Terrific. Now she not only looks like a klutz, but she also looks like an idiot, too. “I . . . yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“My niece loves llamas.”

“What is she, twelve?” Sansa scoffs, embarrassed that a woman in her last year of college is dressed like a girl in her teens.

“No, actually, she’s twenty-one,” he replies, his eyes meeting hers for the briefest of moments before diving back into his assessment. “About your age, if I had to guess.”

Sansa’s baby blues widen. “I’m twenty-two.” Her grin widens as well. “How in the world could you tell?”

The handsome doctor laughs. “In my line of work, you get to know people pretty well.”

Sansa opens her mouth to speak, but when he rotates her foot in a new direction, a shockwave of agony shoots straight through her. “Ouch!” she yelps, her leg instinctively retracting to break free, yet his strong hands hold it in place.

“My apologies,” he says, gently lowering her foot to rest in his lap. He rubs her shin, and in an instant, Sansa ignores the pain now that he is touching her in a different and delicious way.

“It’s okay,” she replies, shoving a smile on her face even though she wants to whimper.

“Well, the good news is,” he continues, “you didn’t break it, but . . .”

“The bad news?”

“You sprained it.” 

Sansa gasps. “A sprain? For real?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But all I did was trip!”

“Sprains can happen anywhere, anytime. Sudden unnatural movements, traumatic impacts, extreme overuse . . . so, yeah. It’s a sprain.”

She wags her head, irritated that her clumsiness got the best of her yet again. “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it.” He flashes that million-dollar smile of his, and good grief, her panties start to smolder. “I once had a patient come in with a second-degree sprain just from tripping on the sidewalk while she was walking to the parking garage after work. Poor thing couldn’t walk without aid for over a month.”

“Please tell me that’s not my prognosis!”

“No, luckily yours isn’t nearly that severe, but you _will_ need to stay off your foot for at least a week – maybe two, depending on how fast you heal and how much rest you give it.” He offers her an apologetic smile when she sighs. “I hope you didn’t have any big plans this weekend.”

“Me? Yeah, right.” Sansa snorts at the notion. “Not unless you count doing laundry, watching _When Harry Met Sally_ for the millionth time, and finishing my comparative analysis essay on Virgil and Cicero that’s due on Monday.”

The painfully attractive doctor chuckles at her observation. “A Classics major, no less.”

Stunned, Sansa grins from ear to ear. “You really _are_ good at that, aren’t you?”

Before he replies, Arya’s voice echoes amid the wooded location in which she abandoned her older sister not so long ago.

“There you are!” She is sprinting toward Sansa, her gray eyes bouncing between her older sister and the unknown man entwined with her on the ground. “I was worried about you!”

“If you were so worried about me,” Sansa shouts back, “then maybe you should’ve waited for me like I asked you to!”

Arya slams the breaks, her sneakers squeaking to a stop next to her sister. “It’s not my fault you run like a sloth.” She grimaces at the stranger cradling her sister’s foot, her suspicion boring a hole into him. “And who’s this guy?”

“This is . . .” Sansa’s lips purse while Arya gives him the once-over. Arya _would_ have to show up before she thought to find out Doctor McDreamy’s name.

“Jaime,” he says politely even though her sister is shooting death rays at him. “Jaime Lannister.” He carefully rests Sansa’s foot on the ground and hops to his feet, jutting out his hand for Arya to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

When Arya folds her arms in front of her chest, leaving Jaime hanging in the wind, Sansa huffs. “He’s a doctor, you know.” She lifts her chin in that haughty fashion of hers which always rankles her younger sister. “And he was kind enough to stop and help me, thank you very much.”

“Oh, really?” Still staring down the stranger she caught fondling her sister, Arya lifts a dark brow in challenge. “What kind?”

“Ugh, why do you always have to be so rude?” Sansa hisses.

Arya’s eyes cut to her sister. “Why do _you_ always have to be so damn gullible?”

“Emergency room physician.”

Both women’s heads snap toward the man in question.

“I’m the new attending physician over at Porter Hospital.” He drops his hand, resting it on his waist.

“You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

Jaime smiles at Arya. “That’s because I’m not.”

“How long have you been here in Middlebury?”

“Oh, not long.”

“Where was your last gig?”

Sansa’s eyes almost roll right out of her head. “Oh, for crying out loud, Arya, would you lay off with the interrogation already? He’s a doctor, not a serial killer.”

“Are you sure?”

Jaime laughs as Sansa grabs a rock off the ground and chucks it at her sister. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.” His green eyes sparkle when they meet Sansa’s, and suddenly she no longer cares about her dumb sister and her Clarice Starling impersonation. “We should all be so fortunate to have someone watching out for us as closely as your . . .”

“Sister,” Arya butts in.

“Well then, Sister Arya,” Jaime replies, “would you be so kind as to help me help your sister get onto her feet and get her out of these woods before a big, bad wolf comes along and gobbles her up?”

Sansa snorts out loud when Arya growls under breath at her new arch nemesis. “Fine,” Arya replies, and together she and Jaime squat to the ground and lift Sansa, who hops on her good foot as they lead her down the trail toward the parking lot.

“But your bike?” Sansa says to Jaime as she hobbles along.

“It’ll be fine,” he reassures her. “I’ll double-back and get it after I make sure you’re safe and sound in your car.”

“My knight in shining armor.” Sansa does not restrain the wistful look plastered on her face as the three of them shuffle down the path. 

When Arya groans with added flair, Jaime chuckles. “At your service, my lady,” he says as his eyes meet Sansa’s, and in that moment, time and space cease to exist. All she knows and feels grinds to a standstill. Nothing matters right now but his powerful arms wrapped around her waist and shoulders and the heady rush of his masculine scent shooting off fireworks in her brain. 

Before she knows it, she is propped against the rear passenger door of her car, balancing on Jaime’s shoulder while he opens the front one for her.

“In you go,” he says as he eases her into the seat. Without warning, he drops to a knee, lifting her injured foot into the car with the greatest of care.

“Thank you.” She is breathless, far more so from the prolonged physical contact with the handsome physician than from the tiring trek to the vehicle. “Thank you for everything.”

“My pleasure.”

 _I wish,_ she thinks to herself as he rises to his full height. She does not have time to reply before Arya is stepping in between them like an overprotective dog.

“I got it from here, Lancelot,” she says to Jaime, holding up a hand to block him while she starts to shut the car door.

“Wait!” Sansa uses her good foot to shove the door wide open again, an unforeseen move which has Arya stumbling to the side. “Will I ever see you again?”

With Sansa leaning out the door, Jaime’s bottom lip disappears under the top row of his teeth for the briefest of seconds. “It would be remiss of me not to check in with my patient to see how she’s doing,” he says to Sansa, stepping closer while Arya mutters a string of curses under her breath that would make a sailor blush. “Do you have a pen? I’m still waiting for my business cards to arrive, so . . .”

“Yes! Yes, hold on . . .” Sansa disregards her sister’s off-hand remark about his “likely story” while she starts digging around her car, desperate to find one. “Here!” she exclaims as she unearths one hiding in the pile of used fast food napkins littering the cupholders. She hands it to Jaime, and her breath hitches when he takes her by the hand, flipping it over so he can scribble his contact info on the inside of her wrist.

“Let me guess – you suddenly make house calls.”

Sansa glares at Arya over Jaime’s head while he writes, and for the moment, Arya gives up, shrugging her shoulders before heading to the driver’s seat.

“Remember,” he says as he hands the pen back to Sansa. “Stay off that foot for at least a week. Doctor’s orders.”

“I will,” she replies.

“And be sure to elevate it and ice it down to reduce the swelling. Over the counter meds are fine, by the way. Just take three ibuprofens at a time for prescription-strength.”

“Pfft,” Arya mumbles while stuffing Sansa’s keys into the ignition. “Some doctor. Every idiot knows that.”

Sansa continues to ignore her irritating sister. “Thank you, Dr. Lannister. I’ll be sure to follow your advice to the tee!”

She swears something in his demeanor shifts when he leans in toward her, wetting his lips as he hangs on the car door. “My name is Jaime. Call me Jaime.”

“Jaime . . .” His name floats off her tongue like a wispy feather. “I’m Sansa, by the way. Sansa Stark.”

“A lovely name for a lovely lady,” he adds with a mischievous wink.

Arya revs up the engine a little extra to give him the hint. “Gag me already.”

Once again, her younger sister’s rude conduct has Jaime laughing. “Don’t forget – let me know how you’re doing,” he calls out to Sansa before he pats the roof of the car and shuts the car door.

“I will!” She waves at him, woozy when he waves in return, but the magical moment is cut short when Arya reverses the car like a Formula One race car driver and peels out of the parking lot.

Sansa spins in her seat, too far gone to deal with her sister’s boorish ways right now. While Arya’s favorite heavy metal radio station blasts through the speakers, Sansa stares out the back window, watching Jaime’s form fade into the distance as he heads back to the trail. When he finally disappears, she turns in her seat, facing the road ahead, and sighs like a woman in love.

Maybe going for a run today wasn’t such a bad idea after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuck at home, Sansa decides the best way to cure her boredom is to text Jaime, and have _mercy_ \- it works.

“I’m fine, Mom, really,” Sansa says into her cell phone for the millionth time in the last ten minutes. “The walk-in clinic here on campus gave me all the supplies that I’ll need.”

“But are you _sure_ you wouldn’t rather stay here at the house with us – just until you can get around again?” 

Sansa shakes her head even though her mother cannot see her through the phone. “No, I think it’d be easier if I stay put since all my stuff is here. And I still have classes come Monday, so - ”

“You’ll need to speak with your professors about your situation,” her mother jumps in quickly.

“I already messaged them through Google classrooms, and they’re okay with me Zooming classes this week and uploading my work to the Cloud.”

Her mother falls silent for a moment before she replies. “I have no idea what you just said, but as long as that’s good news, then I’m happy.”

Sansa chuckles at her mother’s lack of technical knowledge. “It’s good news, Mom.”

“Okay, well, if you’re sure . . .”

“I’m sure. I’ll be just fine.” Sansa knows how much her mother worries about her kids, especially now that three of her five have flown the coop. “Jeyne is here and can help me around the apartment if I need it, and Arya already made me swear an oath on pain of death that I will stay off my foot as much as possible.”

“I have no doubt your sister means every word of it, too.” Her mom relaxes, laughing a beat or two before stepping back into her protective mom suit. “Well, all right then. But you call me or Dad if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“I will.”

“Your father and I will stop by after church tomorrow to check on you and to bring you and Jeyne some lasagna and lemon pound cake we’re having tonight for dinner.”

Sansa’s stomach growls just thinking about her mother’s home-cooked meals. If there is one thing to be said about Catelyn Stark, it is that she is knows her way around a kitchen. “That would be awesome – thanks!”

“All right, then. You take it easy, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. ‘Night, Mom.”

“Good night, sweetie. Love you!”

“Love you too.”

When the phone lines disconnect, Sansa heaves a heavy breath and flops backward, her head smooshing into the half-dozen pillows her sister used to prop her up on the bed. It has been hours since Arya left, and after a day spent immobilized, Sansa is bored to tears. Her butt is numb, her back is stiff, and she is sick to death of watching television or chasing random rabbit trails online. She cannot imagine what it is going to be like having to lay around like this all week. 

Her stomach growls, reminding her it has been quite some time since she has eaten. She glances at her crutches, contemplating how much energy it would take to get up and get to the kitchen, but she quickly decides against it. Her armpits still ache from using those stupid things all morning, and the last thing she needs is to fall over while hopping around the apartment on her good foot. If she were to injure herself again, Arya will skin her alive.

Sansa snorts out loud just thinking about her sister. Arya’s suspicious nature and protective streak are a million miles wide, yet her heart is in the right place. She can be a royal pain in the ass at times (okay, a _lot_ of the time), but she means well, even when she is mean, and sometimes her inability to take no for an answer can be a good thing.

Like on the way home, for example. Arya insisted that her big sister go by the campus clinic. If she had not listened to Arya, then those crutches would not be resting against her nightstand right now. And it was Arya who helped her up the stairs of her apartment building and who helped her get her bedroom all set up for her current status as an invalid. Before she departed, Arya made sure that she has everything she needs within an arm’s reach.

Everything but the shower and the toilet, that is, but she will cross that bridge when she comes to it.

Drumming her fingers on her bedspread, Sansa’s mind wanders as it is apt to do, and of course, it wanders right back to one very handsome physician who rode in on his noble, white steed to save the day. She daydreams about what Jaime is doing right now. Judging by those toned legs of his, he could still be navigating the trails around Middlebury, or he could be back at his place, showering after getting all hot and sweaty . . . and dirty . . .

And just like that, an image of a wet, soapy Jaime appears out of nowhere, causing her thighs to crash together like a pair of cymbals in an orchestra. Frustrated, she exhales sharply, fidgeting where she sits as she tries _not_ to think about him naked. Yeah, right. Like that won’t happen again. Her attraction to Jaime is way too visceral, a primal urge unlike anything she has experienced until today – not even with the only real boyfriend she has ever had. Harry certainly is attractive and physically fit and all, but Jaime . . . good Lord, he is otherworldly. 

An idea pops into her brain without warning. What better way to end the monotony of solitude than by texting Jaime, just to say hello and to let him know she is okay. Surely, it is not too soon to do so. He _did_ say he wanted her to let her know how she is doing after all.

In a flash, Sansa snatches her phone where it rests on her bedspread and pulls up his contact information, which she just so happened to have saved during the long wait to be seen at the clinic. Her finger hovers over his name, locked and loaded, yet the little voice inside her head – the annoying one that has her second-guessing herself all the time – rears up. 

Maybe it is too soon to reach out. When he told her to check in with him, he probably meant later in the week – not before sunset. No, she should wait. The last thing she wants to do is appear like some crazy, stalker nutjob.

Her lips purse as she stares at his name. She is overthinking things, which is her standard modus operandi when it comes to just about everything. Jaime is a doctor. A _doctor._ There is no good reason why she couldn’t go ahead and contact him tonight. In fact, she would be doing him a favor if she did. She could put his mind at ease. She bets all doctors would appreciate a kind, thankful message from their patients every now and then. And hey, that is exactly what he called her today – one of his patients.

Before the self-doubt kicks in again, her thumbs fly across her screen.

_Hey! It’s me, Sansa. Just wanted to say hello and to thank you again for helping me today. You were amazing, btw!_

For good measure, she slaps a smiley emoji at the end right before she hits send, and once it goes through, she closes her eyes, praying that she made the right move. She chucks her phone onto her bed, ordering herself not to check it every other minute to see if he has replied. She snags her laptop where it rests by her knees and opens it. She clicks and clicks, reading various social media posts from friends and scrolling through the latest headlines. None of the above takes her mind off her text floating out there somewhere in cyberspace. 

As the seconds turn into minutes and the minutes become an hour, the true torture begins. She beats herself up for jumping the gun. She should have played it cool and waited until at least Monday to reach out to him. And why on earth did she send a text, anyway? With a stupid emoji, no less. She should have called him. That would have been the more grown-up thing to do. All she did by texting him was reinforce just how much younger than him she is. She can hear him now, rolling his eyes while muttering under his breath, “Kids these days.”

Great.

Now she feels even more like an idiot than she did while sitting on the trail in a pair of llama socks and a worn-out, too-tight Super Mario t-shirt.

When her cellphone starts vibrating, Sansa almost jumps right out of her skin. She dives to grab it off the bed, and when she sees who it is, she shrieks so loud, her neighbors are going to call the cops to report a murder.

_Hey yourself - so glad to hear from you!_

Never in her life has she seen a more beautiful text message.

_Sorry it took so long to reply. Had to wait till I could get a break. Working graveyard shift tonight._

She giggles at the eyeroll emoji at the end of his second message. Maybe he will not think she is too immature after all.

_And you’re welcome btw – glad I could help. How’s your ankle?_

_It’s tender but the ibuprofen helps. The bandage is aggravating, but I guess I’ll have to get used to it!_

On a whim, she snaps a photo of her wrapped foot and sends it along with her reply. Her internal Arya is grumbling already.

_Nicely done. Did you wrap it yourself?_

_No, I went to the clinic here on campus. They did it – not me!_

_They also tell you not to wear that thing overnight?_

Staring at her screen, Sansa’s fingers pause. She has no idea what they told her at the clinic. She was too busy fantasizing about Jaime wearing nothing but a white lab coat while the nurse practitioner was giving her instructions.

_Maybe? I guess I should’ve paid closer attention …_

He laughs at her reply with the little embarrassed monkey hiding its face.

_Don’t worry. You have me, right?_

His text has her baby blues melting into a puddle of goo. There is nothing she would love more than to have him, all right. 

_Just make sure you take it all the way off before you slip into bed. Doctor’s orders, remember._

That one has her eyelashes whacking into her brow bone, her thighs brushing together in search of a little friction to help ease her suffering. She shakes her head to get out of it. Good grief, she is pathetic. The poor man is doing nothing but giving her free medical advice, yet here she sits, horny and desperate and taking everything he says the wrong way.

_I’ll do whatever you want, doc – I’m a good girl, I promise!_

Jaime’s reply does not come right away, and while she waits, she skims their text history to pass the time. When she rereads her last response, her mouth drops into her lap.

This is _so_ why she should not have texted. 

_I’ll be the judge of that._

“Oh, my GOD,” she says out loud. Her hand clasps her mouth shut to suppress a squeal. She cannot believe what she just wrote, let alone his reply. What she said might have sounded like a double-entendre, but his comment could be a gift-wrapped, hand-delivered invitation to try a little S&M.

_Hate to do it but have to run. One of my residents needs a consult. Text me tomorrow and let me know how it goes._

She takes a deep breath, steadying her nerves. She can do this. Jaime is just being a good doctor and nothing more. She just needs to calm down and get her mind out of the gutter.

_Will do - talk to you tomorrow!_

The last text she receives from Jaime is a thumbs-up emoji.

“Wow.” She cannot contain her giggles. “Just . . . _wow_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeyne teases Sansa about her date/not-a-date with Jaime, and when the handsome doctor shows up at their apartment, Sansa begins to wonder if Jeyne wasn't right after all.

_Sounds good. See you tomorrow._

As she rereads Jaime’s text from yesterday, Sansa’s lips curl and curl, just like they have the last four thousand times while rereading his message. Staring at the phone screen while sitting on the couch, she brushes the words with her fingertip. She still cannot believe that he will be coming over to her apartment this evening to check on her. It is almost too good to be true.

A dreamy sort of sigh emerges just thinking about him. She is still amazed that what started out as a spur-of-the moment decision last Saturday has turned into a daily event. Sometimes they text in the early morning hours when he comes off duty at the hospital and before she logs into her first online class of the day. Sometimes it is in the wee hours of the night when he has a break in between patients and before she goes to sleep. It does not matter to her when they chat – she is just happy that he _wants_ to chat.

And over the course of the week, she has learned some very interesting facts about the handsome doctor: he is single ( _hallelujah, Jesus_ ); he lived in Atlanta prior to moving up north; and he relocated to Middlebury almost six weeks ago to be closer to his younger brother, a psychologist specializing in addiction treatment here in the local area. Like most emergency room physicians, he works long, crazy hours, but when not at the hospital, for fun he loves all sorts of outdoor sports such as mountain biking, paddle boarding, and rock climbing. 

Sansa’s smile widens even further while thinking about the string of laughing emojis he sent when she told him that his idea of fun sounded like a modern version of the Spanish Inquisition. Jaime might look like Adonis in the flesh, but it is his quick wit and his upbeat personality that has her swooning these days. He really is the whole package.

 _A package I’d love to unwrap one day if I get the chance,_ she thinks as she giggles to herself. Her eyes catch sight of the time in the corner of her phone, so she inhales and exhales slowly, reminding herself that he is due to arrive at her place any minute. The last thing she needs is to work herself up into a raging ball of hormones before he even breeches the doorway.

Trying to distract herself, Sansa scrolls through her camera roll to kill time, but it does not take long before she is ignoring the various images of her family and friends and staring at the selfie Jaime sent her earlier in the week. On that particular night, she was knee-deep in studying for an exam in her Advanced Readings in Latin course when his name popped up on her phone. He said it was a slow night in the emergency room, so he took the opportunity to wish her luck on her test in the morning. _Benediximus,_ his next text said. Her heart did a flip when she saw his message. Not only did he remember she had a big exam, he also took the time to say so. In Latin, no less.

While chatting back and forth, Sansa happened to ask him what doctors typically do on slow nights to pass the time. To her surprise, a photo hit her inbox shortly thereafter. Sporting scrubs and a stethoscope draped around his neck, Jaime was perched on a gurney, a latex glove inflated like a balloon in his hand. On the front was drawn in Sharpie a smiley face with buck teeth. The message that followed had her howling in laughter – _We make Wilsons._

She snickers out loud once again. She never imagined a well-educated, medical professional could be such a dork. It is yet another character trait that makes Jaime even more appealing, especially to a woman who reads Aristophanes for fun.

“He certainly has a way with latex, doesn’t he?”

Sansa startles. She did not hear Jeyne, her roommate and best friend since middle school, come into the living room. Jeyne is leaning on the headrest, peering over her roomie’s shoulder.

“I bet he won’t mind showing you how good he is with it, either.”

“Oh, my God!” Sansa’s pale cheeks blaze like an oven. “Would you stop already?”

Jeyne giggles when Sansa tries to swat her. “When _is_ The Love Doctor supposed to arrive, anyway?”

“Any minute now.” Sansa shakes her head in amusement. “And is it wrong of me to be thankful that you have to work tonight so you’re not here to give me a hard time?”

“Nah. But hey, who knows? Maybe if you play your cards right, he’ll be the one giving you something hard.” 

“Jeyne!” Her roommate’s comment has Sansa burying her face in her hands.

“You know I’m just kidding you. Sort of.” Her teasing tone shifts as she pats Sansa on the shoulder. “But seriously, though. It’s good to see you dating again. After Harry, I was worried you’d join a convent.”

Sansa groans just thinking about her philandering, money-hungry ex. That no-good snake in the grass never loved her. He only saw dollar signs when he looked at her. 

“It’s not a date,” she replies. “He’s just coming over to check on my ankle. That’s all.”

“He’s coming to your apartment. On his night off. With _dinner_.” Jeyne snorts. “Sounds like a date to me.”

Sansa shakes her head, refusing to get her hopes up. “He never _said_ it was a date.”

“He didn’t have to. Everyone on the planet knows that’s a date.”

“Jaime is just being a good doctor, that’s all,” Sansa insists. “He wants to make sure I’m okay, and he probably offered to bring dinner because he assumes that I’m a poor college student living off ramen and tuna.”

Jeyne rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s not a date!”

“Whatever . . .”

“It’s _not_ a - ”

A firm, steady knock on the front door interrupts their budding debate.

“I’ll get it!” Jeyne calls out. She is dashing to the front door before Sansa can even think about hobbling over to open it herself.

“I swear, if you even think about - ”

“Well, well, well,” Jeyne purrs once the front door jerks open, and as Sansa spins in her seat, she is rendered speechless. On the doorstep stands a vision of sheer glory, a golden god poured into a form-fitting pair of jeans and a snug red Henley, topped off to perfection by a well-worn, black leather motorcycle jacket.

“Hello to you too,” Jaime says in return, a lopsided grin on his face as he stands there holding two enormous plastic bags full of take-out. “You must be Jeyne.”

“I am. Dr. Lannister, I presume?”

“Guilty as charged.” Jaime chuckles. “And it’s Jaime. Just Jaime.”

“So, _Jaime_ ,” Jeyne begins as she leans on the doorframe, shamelessly giving him the once-over, “has anyone ever told you that you could be a model?”

Jaime’s grin stretches. “Maybe.”

“Oh, my _God,_ ” Sansa mutters under breath. She wants to crawl into a hole. Why she is surrounded by people who have no filter is beyond her. “Jeyne!” she all but shouts. “Let him in, would you?”

Jeyne steps aside to let Jaime enter, and while his green eyes dance around the apartment, she mouths “wow” behind his back.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Don’t you have to be at work?” she calls out, hoping to get Jeyne moving before she says anything else embarrassing.

“Oh, right.” Jeyne giggles like a schoolgirl as she snatches her coat off the rack next to the front door.

“It was nice to meet you,” Jaime says as she slips into her coat and grabs her purse.

“Same.” Jeyne exits and starts to close the door but leans inside before it shuts. “You two kids enjoy yourselves – and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“Let’s hope you’re fairly open-minded,” he replies with a wink.

Jeyne cackles loudly as she shuts the door behind her while Sansa, whose mouth is lying in her lap, cannot even begin to handle the implication of his remark. Surely, Jaime did not mean that to sound the way it sounded.

But if he did . . .

Lord have mercy.

She is going to need a jar of smelling salts before the night is through.

“So, how’s my patient doing?” he asks as he sets the bags of food onto the pass-through counter between the eat-in kitchen and living space.

Sansa blinks, coming back to the moment. “Great! I’m doing much better, thanks!”

“Good,” he says as he finishes his task and removes his jacket. He drapes it across one of the barstools and heads toward her. “Have you had any issues since we last spoke?”

“No, not a one. All week I’ve stayed off it as much as possible, and I’ve kept it elevated off and on throughout the day. It’s still tender, but at least I can touch it now without wanting to scream.”

“Well, that is certainly good news.” He smiles at her, towering over her as he stands by the couch. His proximity has her pinching her legs together, just a little, as she gazes up at him. “Mind if I have a look?”

“Sure!” 

He takes the seat next to her on the couch and lifts her bare foot, and when he does, his cold hands make her flinch. “Sorry,” he says, letting go of her and rubbing his hands together.

She bites her bottom lip. “Aren’t doctors supposed to have cold hands?”

“Only when they don’t have somewhere warm to put them.”

He resumes his examination, and she is not sure if it is his remark or the heat from his touch that sends a jolt of desire straight to her lady bits. 

“Of course, if I’d remembered to grab my riding gloves before I left my condo,” he adds as he carefully twists her ankle, “that probably would’ve helped.”

And there it is, plain as day. 

She took what he said the wrong way, just like she has done all week.

She really needs to find a new hobby.

While he continues his inspection, her brow furrows as his comment soaks in. “Wait - you rode your bike over here?”

“I did.” He chuckles when he looks up and sees her perplexed expression. “Not my mountain bike. My motorcycle.”

“Oh, you rode your . . . _oh._ ”

As his focus returns to her ankle, Sansa loses hers. Visions of Jaime roar into her consciousness, his blond hair whipping in the wind as he heads down the highway on his hog. That thought quickly morphs to include her riding on the back, the sound of the road pummeling her ears and the scent of leather tickling her nose as she leans against him, her arms wrapped around his waist while they explore the outskirts of Middlebury.

“I’m very pleased with what I see,” he says, tearing her out of her daydream. He gently rests her foot back on the couch and pats her shin. “You’re healing extremely well – even faster than I thought you might. I can tell you listened to what I told you to do.”

“Oh, I did! I did _exactly_ as you instructed. I told you, doc – I’m a very good girl.”

Something flickers in his green eyes after she speaks, his brow lifting in question for the briefest of seconds while he studies her. It is not until he wets his lips that she begins to wonder if she is not the only one around here taking things the wrong way.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says all of a sudden, rising to his feet and heading to her kitchen, “because I’m think I bought enough food to feed you and your roommate for an entire month.”

Sansa grins as he washes his hands. “I’m starving, actually.” She inhales, the aroma of Mexican cuisine making her stomach growl. “It smells delicious, by the way. Where did you go?”

“The Mad Taco.”

“Oh, man – that’s my favorite! They have the best burritos and nachos.”

“So I’ve heard.” The corner of his mouth tilts as he continues to unbag the multiple take-out boxes and line them up on the counter, and it is then that she remembers him asking her earlier in the week where the locals liked to dine and what her favorite foods were.

A flash of heat crawls up one side of her long neck and down the other when his eyes meet hers. 

_Somebody is definitely thinking about me,_ she tells herself as she worries her bottom lip.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jaime watch a movie together, but during the course of the film, they find themselves a tad distracted.

“I don’t believe it!” Sansa shouts at the television. “Seriously?”

Jaime chuckles from his seat beside her on the couch. “I take it that you’ve uncovered yet another historical inaccuracy?”

“Uh, _yeah_.” Her hands swirl in the air in her frustration. “Briseis doesn’t kill Agamemnon – everybody knows that! 

“Of course.”

“It’s his wife Clytemnestra and his cousin Aegisthus who kill him after he survives the war and returns to his kingdom in Argos and Mycenae,” she continues, too busy complaining about the movie’s over-the-top creative license to notice the huge grin perching on his face. “The fact that they’re killing him off now basically cancels out the entire series of plays written by Aeschylus.” In disgust, she flops back against the couch, folding her arms in front of her chest. “I mean, how in the world is his son supposed to seek revenge on mom if dear old dad gets offed by some priestess in the middle of the freaking Trojan War?”

Jaime leans forward, reaching for the remote resting on the coffee table. “Shall I turn it off and spare you the rest?”

“Nah, it’s okay,” she says, freezing him in his tracks. “I have to find out if Achilles will actually die from an arrow to the heel.”

His grin spreads into a full-fledged smile. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” She smiles, her attention flitting back to the television. “And besides, Brad Pitt is so pretty in his sword and sandals, even if his costume and equipment really owe more to the elves and the Men of Gondor than it does to Greek history.”

Jaime’s sudden burst of laughter has her glancing his direction. Once the realization why he is laughing sets in, she blushes as red as a cherry. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

“Doing what?”

“You know,” she says, wincing at how much of an egghead he must think she is right about now, “boring you to death with my useless knowledge.”

“You’re not boring me in the least.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.” He twists in his seat, angling himself on his end of the couch so he is facing her. “I’m enjoying listening to you rip the filmmakers a new one.” His comment has her cheeks flushing an even deeper crimson. “And for the record, your knowledge is _not_ useless.”

She snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” he continues while studying her. “Your expertise in ancient cultures and languages is fascinating.”

“Really?” Sansa gasps. Until now, the only two people on the planet who truly support her obsession with a bunch of dead dudes in togas is her mother and Jeyne. “You think so?”

“I do. I love how passionate you become when something excites you.” His tongue darts out for the briefest of moments, sailing across his lips. “And seeing you excited excites me.”

Her lashes stretch to her brows, her mouth tumbling open. _That’s what she said,_ her inner Arya answers in return, snickering like a teenage boy. Jaime’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he winks, which sends Sansa down that old, familiar path again, the one that leads her to visions of him in nothing but a stethoscope as the two of them play doctor back in her bedroom. How she wishes he would offer to examine other parts of her body, not just her ankle.

From the kitchen counter her cell phone dings, announcing the arrival of a new text message. The sudden sound snaps her out of her wayward daydream, returning her to the moment.

“Wow,” she says softly, both charmed and aroused by his unsolicited praise. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The epic battle between the Greeks and the Trojans rages onward, but the unfolding chaos fades into the background of her consciousness as she and Jaime focus on each other. Her heart rate ratches up when his emerald eyes, alight with something caught between delight and desire, scissor across her features. She swallows hard under his gaze, her fingernails digging into her palms in nervousness. 

“I still bet you’ll never agree to watch another movie with me again, especially one that has chariots in it.” She forces a smile, hoping her joke soothes her itch to slide over to his couch cushion and figure out how to crawl into his lap without whacking her bum foot. To her astonishment, however, Jaime has a similar idea.

“Chariots or not, I’d be happy to watch any film with you, Sansa,” he says, his arm gliding along the back of the couch as he scoots closer. “Any film . . . any place . . . any time.”

Her pulse thrums in her ears when his thigh meets hers, his proximity enrapturing her, the scent of his aftershave beguiling her. She is equal parts scared and overjoyed that he is making a move, titillated by the way the strand of hair once tucked behind his ear now falls freely, partially concealing an eye as he leans closer. He is older and wiser, no doubt way more experienced than she is. She frets about her breath and where to put her hands and good Lord, he is right there, and . . .

His lips are even softer than she imagined when they tentatively press against hers, smooth and moist and so full of promise. A hand slips up her neck and into her hair, his fingers weaving inside her curls, which she purposely wore down this evening. He is slow and restrained, not holding her so much as guiding her, letting her decide how fast and how deep the kiss he initiated will go.

Emboldened, she parts like an orchid, a moan slipping past her lips when his tongue does the same. The space between them shrinks as he draws closer, and she takes the opportunity to explore the carved ridges of his chest still hidden under his shirt. When a strong hand grips her waist, a shockwave of want erupts inside her, an unstrained urge to uncover the mystery of what womanly longing becomes when paired with the perfect partner.

What could be years is only minutes, and when he pulls back, resting his forehead against hers, she chokes down the whine tickling her throat from the loss of his mouth on hers.

“Forgive me,” he rasps, still searching for his breath.

She does not hide her confusion. “What for?” 

“I like you, Sansa,” he begins to explain. “I like you a _lot._ ”

“I like you a lot, too.”

“You’re a beautiful, smart, clever young woman, and well, as you can plainly see, I’m _very_ attracted to you, but . . .”

His hesitation worries her, her panic daring to take hold. She is afraid that she has done something wrong or has not pleased him, that her lack of expertise in this arena is blinking like a neon sign in Vegas. “But _what_?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, there is a considerable age gap between us.” The sad smile he offers reflects his resignation. 

Sansa blinks. “And . . . that’s it?”

It is Jaime’s turn to be confused. “Is what it?”

“You’re worried because you’re older than me?”

“Shouldn’t I be?” 

“No!” She wants to cry she is so happy. “God, no!” Her hands intertwine with his golden locks, yanking him to her before he knows what hit him, and the delicious moan he emits when she kisses him roughly has her squirming where she sits. He gives as good as he gets, pressing his weight into her until she is leaning against the arm of the couch. He is all but lying on top of her, and the sensation of his body smushing hers almost makes her head explode.

The blissful euphoria of melding with Jaime cloaks her in a hazy fog of lust, every synapse firing faster than the Greeks are able to overrun the Trojans on the television screen. She has always been the level-headed one in the family – the good girl, the diligent daughter, the studious student. Even with Harry, her only real boyfriend, she waited and waited and then waited some more until she even thought about letting him round second base. Yet here she is, barely one date/not-a-date into her relationship with the handsome, older physician, and she is ready to straddle him right here in the middle of the living room.

She grins against his mouth, reveling in her newly-discovered wantonness, an action that gives Jaime pause. He pulls back slowly, his hair hanging in his face as he studies her. She is awed by the hunger in his darkened eyes. She smiles wider in disbelief that she brought him to this state, that his reddened, puffy lips have her mark all over them.

“You sure it doesn’t bother you?” he asks, the concern in his question making her explode into a fit of giggles.

“Nope,” she says, stealing a quick kiss for good measure. “Not in the least.”

“But your friends . . . your family . . .”

“ – will just have to deal with it.”

Jaime’s mouth tilts into a wicked grin. “Likewise.” He dips downward, meeting her eager lips yet again, but the unhurried pace from earlier returns. Hands wander while they kiss, his tracing the curve of her hip and the small of her back, skimming the hemline of her blouse where it rests slightly above her stomach. She aches for him to touch her skin, to feel the warmth of his against hers, but she is left frustrated when he shows enough restraint to forgo slipping his hand inside her shirt.

The seconds morph into minutes, and with each passing one, Sansa grows braver. She explores the muscles in his shoulders and arms, and she is not disappointed by what she finds. They are as equally solid, sturdy, and strong as she imagines his legs might be, no doubt honed to perfection from all of his athletic endeavors. 

Down, down her hands drift until they discover that his Henley has drawn free from the waistband of his jeans while they have been kissing. Seizing the opportunity, she slips them under the soft red fabric, dragging her nails up his firm, taught back, and when he groans into her mouth, she changes directions. Resting just north of his waistband, her fingertips contemplate going further south, diving deeper under the denim until she can verify whether he is a boxers or briefs sort of guy.

Sansa’s decision is cut short when the front door lock clicks, and before she can react, in walks Jeyne, her best friend’s gasp of shock echoing across the living room.

“I’m so sorry!” Jeyne all but shrieks, her purse dangling from her shoulder as her hands fly over her mouth. Jaime pops up like a meerkat, peering at the surprised young woman over the back of the couch, while Sansa, who is utterly humiliated at having been caught in the act like some horny teenager, hides her face behind her hands. “I can leave!”

“No, no,” Jaime says as he pushes off Sansa, trying his best to be discreet as he adjusts himself. “It’s all right. It’s late, and I have to be at the hospital early, so . . .”

“I swear I texted you guys!” Jeyne’s brown eyes dart from her best friend to the older man and back again. “I texted almost thirty minutes ago – it was slow at the restaurant, so they let us go early!”

Sansa groans, wanting to kick herself for not checking to see who texted during the movie.

“I’m sure you did,” Jaime says with a laugh as he rises to his feet. He tucks his Henley back into his jeans then extends his hand to Sansa, who is still trying to disappear inside her palms. “My lady?”

Peeking through her fingers, she inhales and exhales like a woman on her way to the scaffold, but knowing that Jaime is amused by the whole affair eases her embarrassment just a little. Her hand meets his, and she allows him to pull her into a seated position.

“Really, guys, I’m so, so sorry,” Jeyne repeats while Jaime scurries around the living room, collecting their dirty plates and cups and dumping them into the sink.

“It’s okay,” Sansa finally speaks. She touches her cheeks, astounded by the heat radiating from them. “We were just . . .” Her mouth clamps shut. There is no way in hell her best friend does not know _exactly_ what they were “just.”

“Well, I guess I’ll hit the road,” Jaime announces as he grabs his leather jacket off the barstool and slips into it. “I have a very long day tomorrow, and I need some sleep.”

“And a cold shower,” Jeyne adds before bursting into a fit of giggles.

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Sansa mutters as she slides down the back of the couch, disappearing once again behind her hands as she melts into a puddle of shame.

“That too,” Jaime replies, shooting Jeyne a wink as he walks toward Sansa. “Good night,” he says to the mortified redhead. He sits beside her again and taps on her fingers. “Text me?”

She drops her hands, ready to accept her fate once he leaves and Jeyne gets a hold of her. “I will.” Her skin flushes an even deeper hue of red when he leans in for a quick, chaste kiss, which she is more than happy to return.

“Good night, Jeyne,” he says as he makes his way past her to the front door.

“Good night,” she replies as the gorgeous doctor waves and disappears into the darkness of the night. The door remains open as she turns to smirk at her best friend, and the rush from Jaime revving up his engine floats into the apartment.

“You heard the man,” Sansa says, clearing her throat as she tries to clamber to her good foot and hop to her room to escape the onslaught about to hit her right in the face, “it’s late, and – ”

“You’re not going anywhere, missy,” Jeyne insists as she slams the front door and shirks her coat and purse. “Not until I get all the details.”

Sansa groans, falling back into her seat. “All of them?”

“ _All_ of them.”

The pair of college girls giggle among themselves as Jeyne hustles to the couch to join her roommate. “So, I was right after all.”

“Right about what?”

“It was a date, wasn’t it?”

Jeyne’s question has Sansa grinning from ear to ear. “Yeah, you were right. It was _definitely_ a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many historical inaccuracies did YOU uncover when you watched the movie _Troy_? LOL


End file.
